


beatle toast

by blobfish_miffy



Series: little darlin' [2]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: ACCIDENTALLY but they do cuddle, Accidental Cuddling, Because I can, Bonding, Cold Weather, Friendship, How Do I Tag, John is Salty, Male Friendship, Platonic Cuddling, Sharing a Bed, Swearing, again when isn't he, and then they cuddle, and they were ROOMMATES, but i didn't because this fandom needs more platonic brotherly love, but when isn't he tbh, george is adorable, george too, i almost turned this into a shipfic, john's an awkward boi, oh my god they were roomates, their friendship is so interesting and i love it, two bros chillin in one bed five feet apart cause theyre not gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-28 04:06:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18748687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/pseuds/blobfish_miffy
Summary: “M bloody freezin’, mate,” George says, and he shivers for emphasis, tugging the blanket tighter around him.“Oh.” John says.“Yes, oh.”A pause.“Fuck d’ya want me to do about tha’, then?”**pre "little darlin'". George and John bunk together. John's very cold. George is too.





	beatle toast

**Author's Note:**

> Unedited. Sorry for any grammar/spelling mistakes and/or typos!

Sharing a room has never been a rare occurrence. It’s one of those things they just _do_ on tour: sleeping in usually adjoined rooms in pairs of two, each supplied with two identical twin beds, back towards each other during the night. Or like back in Hamburg, sleeping in one big pile of hair and limbs and drool on particularly cold nights, the stuffy, disgusting room they all stayed in having temperatures low enough to cause hypothermia. They’d switch positions routinely to make sure everyone stayed properly warm, the middle being the most comfortable. _“A Beatle-sandwich!”_ Paul would always yell enthusiastically, usually in John’s _innocent_ , unsuspecting ear, and several mutters of agreement would be heard from different parts of their little, awfully comfortable pile. During those days it had become normal to fall asleep listening to one another’s breathing.

But John’s never been a particularly good sleeper.

His mind just doesn’t turn off. He tosses and he turns, he grunts and he groans, but that bloody brain of his never wants to calm the fuck down. Of course, he isn’t the only one in their little group who’s got trouble sleeping: Paul’s got the same thing, but he’s always filled to the brim with ideas and ends up being  _ productive _ , unlike John. Penning down lyrics and melodies at ungodly hours, that’s Paulie’s thing. John sits dazedly, frustrated and exhausted, unable to so much pick up a pencil yet wide awake in a comfortable bed. It’s not a good combination,  _ even  _ if Paul’s a great fuckin’ pillow.

Ritchie, bless him, is dead to the world as soon as he crawls under the covers. That means that he’s got great roommate potential, but he snores. Loudly. It’s no wonder with a nose like his, and though Ringo’s an amazing, downright  _ adorable  _ bloke, John’s sleeping troubles will probably only be amplified when forced to listen to Ringo’s log-sawing throughout the night.

And then there’s Geo. Geo _does_ appear to be a decent sleeper; a _silent_ _sleeper_ , tossing about only five times a night. He's a mouth breather, doesn't snore, and sighs every so often, but stays silent. No surprise there then, that John usually decides to bunk with little George.  One thing about George as a roommate is still _shite_ though, and that's Geo being an early riser. The times they _don't_ drink Geo's up and at it before eight in the fuckin' mornin', and the times they do - _and he should be bloody hungover_ \- he's munching on his toast 9 AM sharp, like a _bitch_ who's got his shit together - unlike John. George is a fucker, John has decided ages ago, no matter how cute his smile is. Nine out of ten times though, John sticks with little Georgie as his early bird roommate.

One night, after a particularly heavy performance, John can’t sleep again. It’s fucked; the adrenaline should’ve worn off  _ ages  _ ago, but his mind is still churning, still replaying images of the  _ screaming  _ audience and the smokey air. He runs his thumb over the callouses on the fingers of his left hand and positions his hand then as if he’s playing the E-minor chord _ ,  _ the melody of  _ She Loves You _ echoing through his head. He hums the first sentence of the first verse lowly, desperate to get the song out of his head, but to no avail; the entire song is now on replay. 

But that’s not just  _ it.  _ Apart from the leftover rush of their concert the temperature in the bedroom is low. Very low. Too low, actually; it’s way too cold to pass out. The frost is seeping through the duvet, freezing his toes until they feel like actual ice cubes. His nose is even worse, and John wonders why in the name of  _ fuck _ the fancy hotel is so cold, even though there’s been paid good money for a comfortable stay. 

John’s  _ not  _ comfortable. Fuck’s sake. 

He’s tempted to crawl into Geo’s bed, share a bit of body heat, but  _ “no,”  _ he thinks grimly,  _ “no. I won’t do that to my dignity.”  _ He’s a grown man, and he can beat a little bit of cold on his own. Potential frostbite be damned; he can play without his toes, sing without fingers. And if his nose falls off, whatever. Maybe birds are into disfigured lads with shitty humour, or they’ll just become a studio band. Paul’s pretty enough for the lot of ‘em. Peace and love. 

Yet secretly,  _ very secretly,  _ he still hopes that maybe Geo’s kept awake as well by the ungodly temperatures of their shared bedroom, and that there’s a miniscule chance that he, too, is thinking about crawling into the other’s bed - though that chance is, indeed, more than merely miniscule. Even back in Hamburg Geo refused to cuddle a little, especially when he was sick and miserable. He’d be curled up into a tiny ball, hissing  _ “don’t touch me”  _ in their general direction, freezing up when someone got too close. Back to back, that was the only thing he’d accept, and only when it was Paul.

Crawling into someone else’s bed is just simply not something Geo has ever done, and he probably will never do so as well. John, quite  _ miserably  _ in his own opinion, is completely and utterly convinced it’s Geo’s attempt at looking  _ cool  _ and  _ aloof,  _ because in John’s mind there’s no way in  _ hell _ little Georgie Harrison doesn’t like being physically close to his older,  _ way cooler  _ friends. Of course, John cannot ignore that George is no longer stuck in that whiny, annoying, insecure younger brother phase, even if John likes to imagine he’s still fully emerged. The boy is becoming his own person with his  _ own  _ songs and opinions and sneers and humour; he doesn’t really  _ need  _ John anymore, doesn’t  _ need  _ to look up to him like he’s some idol, and the thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. It might be cruel and selfish, trying to keep Geo small and ignoring his attempts at joining him and Paul and their little songwriting sessions, barely acknowledging his clever suggestions, but John’d rather have him frustrated and insecure than confident and  _ ready-to-leave-this-fuckin’-band-I-mean-it-Lennon. _ It’s no secret George is severely starting to dislike the whole  _ Beatle _ -business, and the right amount of confidence might give him the boost to quit and do shit on his own. It’s too risky. 

John sniffs. He’s got a runny nose, courtesy to the cold as _bollocks_ room, and when he goes to wipe his nose on the back of his hand a shiver goes down his spine as soon as his hand leaves the decent warmth of the duvet. He mouths a _“oh for fuck’s sake,”_ at the wall and rolls his eyes, curling up a little more. It really is _fuckin’_ cold. 

George turns around in his bed and John closes his eyes, ready to just about freeze to death now as long as sleep will take him, but his eyes snap open when he hears a plethora of curses. They’re harsh enough to make a sailor blush and he bites his lip in an attempt to stop himself from snorting too loud. There’s the shuffle of blankets, another couple of curses, and then: 

“John,” Geo hisses, voice barely above a whisper. _“John._ Mate, are you awake?”

The amount of relief rushing through his body is downright embarrassing, and he clenches his teeth. “I am now, you arse,” he answers and he turns around to face his roommate, squinting in an attempt to make out the expression on George’s face.  _ Bloody blind,  _ John is, and he mutters profanities under his breath as he reaches for his glasses on the nightstand, hand already freezing. The world - basked in the light of the full moon - slowly comes into focus. The sight is rather comical, but George always looks funny when he’s tired: his dark hair sticks up in all kinds of directions, his mouth is pulled into a pout, and his eyebrows are lowered into a frown. It makes him look more like a  _ disgruntled puppy _ than an actual  _ human  _ while staring John down with a glare that  _ probably  _ is supposed to be intimidating, but really isn’t. John swallows a snort.

_ “Wha’?” _ he then asks. Geo continues to be silent, and John resists the urge to roll his eyes. The smallest amount of annoyance rushes through his veins and he grits his teeth.  _ “What, Geo?”  _ he presses, voice raising in volume. “I’s  _ literally  _ about to fall asleep, wanker.” _ Lie, but whatever. _ “What the fuck do ya want?”

Geo huffs and looks away. “M bloody freezin’, mate,” he says, and he shivers for emphasis, tugging the blanket tighter around him. 

“Oh.” John says. 

“Yes,  _ oh.” _

A pause. 

“Fuck d’ya want me to do about tha’, then?”

John  _ swears _ he sees George flush with colour as he bites down on his bottom lip harshly. What does that even  _ mean?  _ Embarrassment? What the fuck does he want to ask that makes him feel  _ embarrassed?  _

“Well, y’know, I thought-”

“Spit it out, Harrison!” he just about barks, done with Georgie’s beating ‘round the bush. Geo, though blessed with wit sharper than John’s and sass rivalling Paul’s, could really be  _ terrible  _ at being straight to the point during his ever-present bouts of insecurity. It has annoyed the fuck out of John for  _ years,  _ because all George apparently wants is to be found  _ nice  _ like their ever image-conscious Macca, though he doesn’t need to be found  _ nice.  _ He just needs to be found  _ talented,  _ in John’s honest opinion, and he already  _ is _ so who gives a rats ass. 

George, apparently, but he spits the words he wants to say out anyway. 

“Can we share?” he stutters, voice cracking on the last words. He clears his throat at that, and continues to look John straight in the eye. “The bed, I mean.”

John’s brain short-circuits, and he just stares at a fidgeting Geo, blinking slowly.  _ Sharing a bed.  _ Sharing. That means sleeping  _ in the same bed.  _ Together. The two of them. In one bed. Exactly what John has secretly wished for, but was too scared to say out loud. Sharing a bed and body heat. He’s cold,  _ bloody cold,  _ and the thought is even more tempting now that it’s handed to him on a silver fuckin’ platter. 

_ “Beatle-sandwich,” _ like Paulie’d say. 

“Well?” Geo snaps, gaze heated. “You up for it or no?”

John’s shaken out of his thoughts and realises he’s probably been silent for quite some time. He meets George’s glare slowly. Of course he’s got to be angry, got to  _ look angry _ because what two  _ manly _ mates would in their right mind share a bed and cuddle for warmth? Paul and him, probably, but that’s different. They’re  _ JohnandPaul,  _ not George and John, who actually kinda sorta not-really-but-somewhat-do dislike each other and aren’t really  _ the best of mates.  _ They’re the boy with an angry outlook on life and the boy who admires yet despises him and they’re the boys who’ve only seem to have their love for guitars and sad songs in common, or at least they used to be, always have been. It’s never been any different. 

“s’alright if you don’t wanna, yknow,” George mutters angrily. He shuffles around in his bed, already turned to lie with his back to John. “Coul’ve jus’ said it outright, then okay? ‘Stead of ignorin’ it.”

He still sounds awfully pissed off, and John swallows. His throat is dry. 

“s’alright, s’alright, ‘s fine Geo. Really. I’m cold too,” he says quickly, and George freezes. His head turns and their eyes meet, both gazes hesitant. “I- erm, which bed would ya like?”

George does a couple of those slow blinks of his and moves to sit up straight. The blankets slips off his shoulders; he’s wearing no more than a grey undershirt. No fuckin’ wonder he’s cold. 

“I don’t-” George starts, eyes shifting back and forth from his own bed to John’s, “I don’t really care-”

“C’mere then,” John half-orders, because he’s really not feeling like stepping out of his bed and leaving the warmth of his duvet for the freezing air of their bedroom. He takes his glasses off and places them back onto the nightstand. “Hurry.”

George slides out of his bed and quickly yanks his own duvet with him, pillow between his teeth, scrambling over to John’s side of the room without saying anything. He’s wearing socks and plaid pyjama bottoms, probably a lot warmer than the cold-ass tanktop he’s wearing on his top half, and doesn’t seem all that bothered by the probably  _ freezing  _ hardwood flooring. He swiftly covers John’s duvet with his own and fuckin’  _ throws _ his pillow right in John’s face - who hits it away with loud swearing - and then slips under the covers. 

And dear  _ God,  _ does it feel weird. George is a slightly skinnier, bonier warm mass than Paul always feels like, and he most importantly smells like  _ George,  _ not like Paul; it’s a pleasant blend of cigarettes and that expensive, aromatic soap he always uses but refuses to share, instead of Paul’s coconut-and-marlboro’s combination. It’s a heavier, denser smell. It hangs in the cold air around him like a perfume, and he’d be lying if he says it doesn’t calm his mind. 

_ Still,  _ lying next to each other is weird. Especially since Geo is not Paul, and John’s not Paul, and now they’re two lads who have never shared a bed on purpose. Passing out on top of each other doesn’t count because they usually hadn’t ended up that way  _ willingly,  _ and neither does the  _ Beatle- _ pile. John lies on his side in a cramped position, arms tucked under him, and Geo’s lies on his back stiffly. They shuffle a little, bare skin of George’s arm brushing that of John’s, and they freeze. 

“This is  _ shit,  _ innit?” Geo mutters darkly. He turns to lie on his side after John huffs out a laugh, and stares him down with that dark gaze of his. “Dunno wha’ I was thinking.”

“It’s warmer,” John offers, voice low. “It’s less freezing now.”

“My feet still feel like fuckin’ ice though.”

“Then get yerself another pair o’ socks, son.”

George quirks his eyebrows and scowls jokingly. “And set foot out there again? You daft? 's fuckin' freezing, git. Me dick'll be no bigger than me pinky finger." 

A slow smirk makes its way across John’s face. "Not like it isn't already," he teases, watching as George's scowl turns into a full blown glare. The younger one huffs, making the daring move of lifting his hand from under the warmth of the blankets, and jabs John in the nose harshly with his pointer finger. John scrunches said organ in retaliation, and leans his head back a little. The new part of the pillow is cold against his neck. 

"I'll have you know that my little finger is abnormally large," George says, glare still in place but a little less heavy. John snickers, and the spots the corner of George's mouth twitch. "I'm serious, Lennon." 

John turns his head to stifle his laughter in his pillow, and then George starts laughing too. It’s oddly freeing, giggling together at an ungodly time of night, and somehow the situation feels less weird. Wondrous what a little humour can do to an awkward situation. The both of them even lean in a little closer, relishing in shared body warmth, and George doesn’t jump back when John tangles their ankles together accidentally. They just laugh silently into the silver-and-black darkness that is their hotel room and it feels  _ nice.  _

It takes a good two minutes before John calms down enough to speak. George is still snickering when he does. “Y’know,” John starts, staring at the space just above Geo’s head thoughtfully, “I’ve been thinking-” 

_ “Oh _ , that’s never a good thing with you.”

“Can you  _ shut it?” _ another snicker. “Fuck’s  _ sake,  _ Geo.”

“Alright, alright -  _ sorry.” _

“I’ve been thinking,” John repeats, a bit louder now, “have we ever shared a bed before?”

“I-” George pauses, “I don’t know. I mean, we’ve shared a bed between the four of us, right?”

“No,” John says, “no. I mean, just the two of us. Not with Ritchie or Macca.”

Silence. Then: “Not that I can remember, no.”

“That’s odd, then, innit?” George is awfully silent, but John is quick to continue. “Y’know, since we’re usually roommates ‘n all. We share a room but never a bed.”

“Cause we’re not gay, Johnny.”

“I share a bed with Paul all the time when we share a room and we’re not gay either.”

“Hm, you sure?”

_ “George.” _

“Sorry,” George laughs, and John opens his eyes a little to see the biggest fuckin’ grin on his friend’s face. “Sorry. But yeah, now that you say it like that I suppose it  _ is  _ kind of weird. I just - I guess we’ve never been that close, huh? Room had to be fuckin’ freezing before we had some physical contact.” 

John closes his eyes again, smiling now. “Sounds rather sad when you put it like that.”

_ “I know!” _

They’re silent again. John’s finally comfortable: his toes doesn’t feel like they’re freezing off anymore, and George’s steady, like spearmint-and-ciggies-smelling breath warms his face and calms him down. The rhythm empties his head and he sighs through his nose, already floating a little. 

“Incomplete Beatle-sandwich,” George then whispers into the silence. John is pulled from wherever he was floating to, but he doesn’t mind for some reason. He’s too exhausted to smile, though. 

“Beatle-toast,” he answers instead. 

George huffs a laugh, and then yawns. “That’s a nice one.”

“You’re the condiment,” John says. “Marmite, ‘cause you’re… sticky. And some people don’t like you ‘cause you’re not sweet.”

“Then you’re the bread, ‘cause you burn quickly and your presence makes me look better,” George reasons, and John snaps his eyes open to scowl.

“Are you saying I’m worse than you?” he hisses, pushing lightly against George’s shoulder, “I’ll have ya know bread is  _ amazing,  _ you wankstain, which means  _ I’m _ amazing-”

“Humble too.”

“Bite me, Harrison.”

There’s a wiggle of eyebrows. “Only if you want me to,” George mutters suggestively, and John snorts before burrowing his face into his pillow again. His cheeks burn and his heart races for some reason, even though it’s just playful banter between the two of them, nothing else, no flirting. George doesn’t seem all that affected by his words and cackles, and John feels himself smile.

“Let’s sleep now, though,” he mutters, reaching out a hand to pat George’s face sleepily. The younger boy curses loudly when John’s hand lands on his cheek hard enough to produce a slapping sound, and pushes the hand away. “I want to be a bit alive tomorrow.”

“Good plan,” Geo sighs, and he settles back down again. It doesn’t seem to take very long before he’s asleep, breathing slowing and deepening within five minutes. John sighs and unconsciously leans a little closer into the warmth. His toes aren’t freezing anymore.

_ “Beatle toast,”  _ he thinks, just before drifting off himself,  _ “toasty under the blanket.” _

 

The first thing John notices when he wakes, is that he’s warm. Comfortably so, actually. Another thing he notices is that he’s still really fuckin’ tired, and severely regrets not closing the blinds before deciding to crawl into bed. 

He’s also got a faceful of hair. 

John leans back with a groan, lifting his head from George’s neck and squinting at the window annoyedly, wishing the sun would’ve stayed asleep for a little longer before he stiffens. He’s lying half on top of Geo, one leg and one arm thrown over the younger boy, and his heart is suddenly in his throat as he scrambles backwards, back against the wall in less than three seconds. 

George wakes up with a sharp intake of breath, and John realises he might’ve kicked the boy awake in his hurry to get away. As Geo yawns and rubs at his eyes, John attempts to calm his panicked heart rate.  _ “It means nothing,”  _  he berates himself.  _ “You cuddle in your sleep. Geo does too. It’s not that big of a deal.” _

A pair of big, dark eyes blink in his direction and George lifts his hand in a lazy wave, though he furrows his eyebrows at John’s awkward position. John shoots him a sheepish grin and George just rolls his eyes, dragging a hand down his face. “Mornin’,” he mutters, voice deep and hoarse with sleep. John nods at him.

“Mornin’,” he replies airily, rubbing at his dry eyes. “Sleep well?”

“Suppose I did,” George yawns again, bigger this time. “You?”

“Just peachy,” John answers. George squints at him. 

“You look like you’ve been awake for a while, mate,” he mutters, sitting up a little now. “Why aren’t ya wearin’ your glasses?”

John’s heart stutters. “Didn’t feel like it,” he shrugs, cool as a cucumber. He pats himself on the shoulder in his head when Geo nods thoughtfully and mutters a  _ “makes sense”.  _

“What time is it?” Geo then asks. He shivers. “Fuck, it’s cold.”

“Haven’t a clue,” John answers, and realises with a start that Geo’s right. It  _ is  _ still awfully cold in their room and the chill seeps in through the cotton of his t-shirt, goosebumps rising up on his bare arms. He chews on his bottom lip. “It  _ is _ really cold, yea.”

“What the fuck are you doin’ sitting up without a blanket then?” George mutters. He sounds both confused and agitated as he rolls over and squints at the clock on the nightstand, not even waiting for John to answer. “It’s just gone eight. Bit early, innit?”

John nods. They’ve slept less than five hours. Nothing new, really; John’s had enough sleepless nights for two lifetimes at this point, so five hours is actually kind of amazing. But he usually doesn’t wake up before eight - that’s just Geo. When John  _ is  _ woken up by George muttering about whatever, getting dressed and ordering breakfast, he usually just throws the duvet over his head and sleeps for another two hours or so. 

“Well, come ‘ead then,” George says, and he pats the space next to him. “We can still get some shuteye.”

“But the light, Geo-”

_ “Lie down, John.” _

John lies back down. But just as he’s slipped under the covers again, the door bursts open. It slams against the wall with a bang, loud enough to give John a fuckin’  _ heart attack _ , and in run Paul and Ringo, still dressed in their pyjamas. They jump on the bed, laughing and yelling  _ “good morning” _ . Ringo immediately yanks the pillow away from under George’s head and slaps him in the face with it, George bursting into laughter and raising his hands as some form of protection. He giggles some half-hearted  _ “stop it” _ s and _ ”fuck off, Ringo” _ s while Ritchie continues to attack him, and Paul straddles John with a grin. He pokes him in the cheek.

“Positively  _ freezin’ _ , last night, wasn’t it?” Paul smiles cheerily,  _ way  _ too fuckin’ awake for 8 am, laughing when John hits his finger away with a groan. “Suppose you two made the best of it as well and decided on some warmth?”

“Wouldn’t be in the same fuckin-” George squeals loudly as Ringo abandons the pillow and just starts tickling him, screeching at him to stop. “f- fuckin’  _ bed _ , if we- RITCHIE FUCK  _ OAFF!” _

George snatches the pillow from the floor and hits Ringo in the face with it, who laughs and almost falls off the bed. John watches with a bemused smile and glances at a giggling Paul.

“What I suppose Geo’s tryin’ to say, Paulie,” John starts, casually ignoring the screeching beside him, “is that we wouldn’t have been in the same bed if we hadn’t made the best of it, would we?”

The youngest of the four of them stops attacking the oldest just long enough to wheeze out a  _ “yes” _ before Ringo’s retaliates again, fingers in armpits, leaving George squirming and squealing. Paul laughs a little and climbs to the top of the bed, sliding his legs under the duvet and cuddling up next to John.  _ “Children, children,”  _ he tuts after George snatches the pillow again and swings it, accidentally hitting John in the face. “Watch it, the old Lemon man is a grump.”

“Will ya  _ fuck off,” _ John splutters, laughing a little as he shoves George lightly. “I’m not old, Ritchie’s the oldest.”

“By three whole months!” Ringo yells jovially, holding George’s wrists in place above the latter’s head as he tries to squirm free. “But I’m a young soul. Yours is fuckin’  _ ancient,  _ Johnny.”

Paul laughs as John now shoves Ringo, who loses his balance and falls off Geo and onto the floor with a yelp. “I love how you’re denying that you’re old, but not that you’re a grump,” he says with a smile, “because it’s true. You are a grump.”

John grumbles a couple of swearwords and presses his face in his pillow, just as George tugs Ringo up again and shuffles closer to John. They’re pressed against one another again, but this time Paul’s on the other side, and Ritchie is sliding under the covers next to Geo. The four of them in a twin bed, half on top one another, a mess of hair and limbs and giggles. 

John can feel Paul smile against his neck. “Beatle-sandwich,” he says, and there’s a chorused agreement from the rest of ‘em. They all laugh, and Ringo starts chattering something about the weird dream he had (something about a submarine), Paul basically starfishes on top of John as he leans in closer to listen more properly. Geo makes a face at John, who groaned quite loudly when Paul went and put all his weight on him.

“You better believe I’m not marmite this time, wanker,” George says, face hilariously serious, and John chokes on his snort while Paul and Ringo watch on confusedly.. “Or else…!”

“Or else what? I’ll be toast?”

Their combined laughter makes the room feel a whole lot warmer. 

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO THERE. Here I am yet again, with a tiny continuation of my little darlin' universe. I've always been quite intrigued by John Lennon and George Harrison's friendship/relationship, because it's just so... different, I guess?. John has said that there was this mentor/student relationship, even though some people beg to differ and say that though the age-gap did change their dynamic slightly and George did look up to John for a very long time, they were good friends above all. I picture their friendship like I've written it in this fic, slightly awkward, not very touchy. I also like to imagine that John was slightly bitter about George not looking up to him as much as he used to, because that's somehow such a John thing to do?? Idk.   
> Anyroad, I hope you enjoyed! Please do leave kudos or comments, they really make my day every time :)  
> xxx


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